


Bundle of Wire

by The_Otter_Knight



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Minor Alby/Ben, Minor Alby/Newt, Minor Gally/Thomas, Minor Sonya/Harriet, Past Abuse, Poor Thomas, Red String of Fate, Work Up For Adoption, poor Newt, still can't write summaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5235743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Otter_Knight/pseuds/The_Otter_Knight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a red string tying people between soulmates.<br/>Newt once believed in them, but he also believed in relationships outside of bounds, believed that it was better to be without a soulmate.<br/>Thomas grew up in a non-bound family and had known the heavy prejudice that came with it and genuinely wanted to meet his own soulmate, and hadn't considered what he'd do once they were gone.<br/>Before they had even met, they had lost that bond.<br/>But the universe has a funny way of bringing people back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Newt

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by a Johnlock AU that I read once.

When he was a child, he thought there was an ethereal beauty to soulmates. Someone unwilling to judge but accepting of your flaws, someone that the universe created just for you. They would be your best friend, your lover, your partner in crime. They were the reason the Earth spun on its axis, the reason why red was associated with soulmates and love. Nothing was stronger than a soul mate's bond, and all that tied them together was a string of red thread tied around their pinkies.

Children would often play a game; following where their thread led, twisting across the ground and pulled tight over streams, laying over sofas and caught high in the trees. The children would only get so far before returning home to their bed.

Everyone's threads were only completely visible to themselves. To everyone else's eyes, anyone else's threads disappeared before it even spanned the length of their forearm. It was only possible to see your own very clearly, unless soulmates stood together.

He was practically an only child with his sister seven years older and already living on her own. So, in his spare time, Newt loved to watch other people interact, his parents, ever loving but having no time for him, left him to his own devices. He loved the idea of soulmates - loved seeing his parents together, loving and doting on each other. He loved to see them and every other soul bound person together. He admired the way that their whole face lit up when they see their strings pull tight, hands raised, before they threw themselves into their other soul's arms.

He also saw the utter heartbreak on their faces when one would suddenly keel over, clutching their hand with an utterly devastated posture, the visible thread around their pinkie dulling into a brittle grey. The echoes of their cries left impressions on his mind for days.

It did not deter him, though. He did not stop his games, chasing after his loose, vibrant red thread across the yard. He tried to imagine his soulmate, and the endless possibilities of who they could be. Were they tall? Short? Thin, scruffy looking with a shock of red hair? Or maybe chubby with the bluest eyes ever known to exist? A boy or a girl? In a society with thread bound soulmates, it did not matter what they were.

Newt would sometimes sit with his parents, cuddled up underneath the stars. "Some people say," he hears his father say one night, "that soulmates come from the beginning of the universe, from the atoms that were near each other at the beginning. And those atoms always find a way back to each other." He would smile and look at Newt's mother then, and the blond boy would pretend to gag, even though he enjoyed how so thoroughly in love they were.

But soulmates were not always that amazing - sometimes other love was just as strong. His mother worked as a insurance broker. Most companies didn't sell insurance to non-soulmates. There were, always, people who tried their best, who defied the odds of soulmates and dated other people, regardless if their soulmate showed up. They didn't want to be dictated by the rules of the universe. Nothing could be said about those whose soul mates died and they also tried to date someone with a black string - but that was because such people didn't exist. Once you met your soulmate, you had a bond. If they passed, it was likely you would die of a broken heart. It had happened to Newt's parents.

It had been a quiet day. He had stayed behind to talk with his teacher about the English assignment - Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, and how soulmates weren't treated well back then. His mother, who had decided to drive him that day had picked him up that had, and they had been blindsided by another vehicle. She had been declared dead at the hospital, whereas Newt suffered severe injuries to his leg. Newt's father had fallen apart, like the base of his foundation had been broken. He became a hollow of a man that he was before, barely eating, sleeping, speaking. He withered away until he reunited with his wife in death.

Their funeral was a somber affair, but everyone had known it was coming. _He died of a broken heart,_ they say, where they think he can't hear him. _It's a tragedy._ Newt's sister had to be called back from America to the funeral. Her own soulmate, a young brunette, had accompanied her, but stayed off to the side. The young boy is glad - he doesn't think he could stomach the idea that his sister had found her soulmate months before their parents died. As his legal guardian, Sonya took him to America. Even though everything hurts, and the thought of dying such a heartbreaking way - no matter if his time with his soulmate is happy otherwise - is terrifying to him.

America isn't what he expects it to be; everybody speaks weirdly, and some people, once hearing his voice, compliment him on it. It's difficult, going back to school and not trying to think that his parents are dead, but his life goes on. Each passing day, he thinks of them less and less. He finally learns to smile again, especially when he meets Alby, Clint, Jeff, and Brenda. They become his anchor, and at least Sonya seems happy that he's finally getting out of his shell again.

He hadn't meant to fall in love with Alby; it was slow, a quiet thing that swung at him from out of nowhere. Alby was his best friend, tall and dark and everything that reminded Newt of what life was before his parents' death. The problem was was that they weren't soulmates. He could remember the exact moment he proclaims this to Alby, a quiet murmur that slips past his lips. "We can work this out," he said. "Please, give us a chance."

"I've already met my soulmate," Alby's words had cut him like a knife, even though his dark eyes were wide with concern and grief. "Ben means the world to me. I'm sorry."

Their friendship became nothing less than strained, and maybe they would have remained friends if it wasn't for people finding out about the incident. Nobody liked people who fell in love with someone other than their soulmate. They were discriminated against, bullied, taunted. His life became a living hell, and even though he no longer felt that way towards Alby, the reprimands never stopped. He could feel the words burn through his body.

 _If soulmates exist and they will accept all of you, no matter what, then they must understand why I'm doing this,_ Newt decides, when the bullying becomes too much. The scissors feel heavy in his hand and his grip unsteady. _I'm sorry,_ he mouths the words, not know who he's saying it to, and cuts the thread.

Newt had long since stopped believing in soulmates, and believed that they shouldn't dictate his life, but it didn't explain why it hurts him so, so much the moment he distanced himself from his.

But the relief he felt was almost worth it, especially when his bullies grow quiet when they see his ebony thread. He's almost happy, now.

 

...

 

In another state, a younger boy awoke to his hand suddenly jerking. That day, Thomas learned that there was nothing more devastating than seeing the thread around his pinkie black and frayed.


	2. Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has seen a soulmate tear apart his family, but he's also seen soulmates bring people together. He just wants to meet his.

Soulmates were a concept for fairytales. He had known this since he was young - the world shot someone at you, and told you, "This is it. This is them. Spend the rest of your lifetime with them, now". Soulmates were whimsical - Cinderella chased after her thread to the ball, Romeo and Juliet had fought to be together when their parents thought it was best for them to wed their non-soulbounds. They were only for stories, and you were lucky if you found your's, but you didn't need to. That is what Thomas' father had taught him since he was young enough to understand what the red thread meant.

"Love is love, no matter if you're bound or not - sometimes you just fall in love with someone else," his mother would whisper to him, kissing the top of his head. She would look over at her husband then and they would share a look. Their strings pulled in different directions, away from each other. In a world that has since shunned Shakespeare's era's views, soulmates meant everything. You were lucky if you got a job when you were dating your non-soulbond, let alone a place to call your home. Thomas could still hear the echoes of taunts of the children in his ears, once they realize who his parents are and who their soulmates are not.

He grew up believing that soulmates were not everything. His history teachers told of how society evolved from rejecting soulmates to encouraging it once they figured that it was proven that you lived longer and were just generally happier. He thought that the concept of soulmates were neat, until a wedge in the form of his stepfather arrived. The stepfather had swooped out of nowhere, as it turned out that he was one of those people who traveled in search of their soulmate. His father had been surprised, and gradually, Thomas' mother spent less and less time at home, instead meeting up with her soulbound. There was no messy breakup, no fist fights or yelling. At least not where Thomas could see it. His parents' seperation was a mutual thing - they drifted apart, because they knew it was best to be with your soulmate, whether it was romantic or platonic.

Thomas knew that there was always a sense of unwholeness to the situation of non-soulmates. No matter how deep their love, it could never match the intense feeling that being with a soulmate brings. Soulmates could fight, all the time, in fact. Nothing in life was ever easy. The only thing that was set in stone, written by scribes long ago when they first discovered where the strings led, was that you were always happier with your soulmate - that your bonds were stronger and no matter what, at some point the universe decided that  _this_ was the person who would help you through life the most, even if it was just for a critical moment in your life.

There was mocking on his parents being non-bound, but he ignored it all. His ray of hope came in the form of a blundering Asian boy, who had run into him - literally. Minho was an chaotic force, loud and levels of sass rocketing through the roof. Even though he had looked surprised at Thomas' parentage, he did not leave the boys' side - it didn't matter to him at all. You can't change who your family is. Minho was a runner for the track team and with some persuasion, convinces Thomas to join as well. On the track, Thomas is introduced to hot-headed Gally, who seems quick to anger but a good friend. He doesn't have very many friends either, but that's because everybody thinks of him as weird, almost like how Thomas is treated. Gally has two strings instead of one - one for each pinkie. When Thomas meets Chuck, Gally's brother, he understands, because Chuck's string leads to Gally as well. It wasn't too strange for siblings to be bound, but it was really uncommon to have not one but two strings. But once Gally seems to realize that Thomas means the best, and after they hit the rough patch of doubting what the other's intentions are, they go to being okay friends.

Soulmates work in funny ways, either coming at them unexpectedly or slowly, into their life. Thomas knew that they would all find their's eventually, but he knew that for now, he enjoyed the company of his friends, including a friendly girl named Rachel who admitted to having found her soulmate during her childhood. Aris and Rachel were platonic, as far as Thomas knew, but he had never seen such kindness in someone's eyes. He hopes that his soulmate could look at him the same way.

Not all soulmates were nice, though. Thomas remembers Gally's quiet murmur, one night when every one had fallen asleep, "I'm glad I have two soulmates. I don't have to be worried about staying with someone who treats me like shit." His eyes are full of haunted emotions, and Thomas can't help but wonder why Gally would say something like that. But not all soulmates were meant to be together forever, some of them only for a small amount of time, an anchor when they needed to be, but eventually the boat had to return to shore and the anchor tossed away.  _They hurt me, but I can't leave them. They love me and I love them. They're my soulmate._ A common sentence by those who had soulmates who they couldn't get along with. What Gally implied was saddening - that he saw soulmates as a means to abuse someone else without worrying that they'd leave because that was what he had grown up knowing, even though he seemed wholly against the fact.

"You don't have to end up with your soulmate," Thomas finds himself saying carefully, and turns to look at Gally. The other boy's eyes are dark and empty and his lips almost taste the exact way he'd imagine sadness to feel like. They fool themselves into believing that no matter who they were bound to, they could always find a home to return to with each other, even if they would always be friends first and foremost.

But homes could get burned down. Her name was Teresa, and she was a tall and dark beauty, with fire in her dark eyes and porcelain white skin. She had fallen into their laps, quite accidentally. She was emerging from a coffee shop just as they rounded the corner, and all of them stop. Her eyes are trained on Gally, who looks simply bewildered. "No," she says, pursing her lips and turning around and simply leaving, walking out of their lives.

Gally says he isn't too distraught, although Thomas can tell by his eyes that he's certainly bothered by the encounter with his soulmate, and finds himself watching the other boy look frantically through the crowds for her again. They eventually find her again, this time in a book store, but she seems far more composed this time rather than the panicked and confused expression she had last time. "My first soulmate died long ago," she explains to Gally, with the others just hiding around the corner so they could hear. "I couldn't bring myself to cut the dead string off, so it was black and frayed until I met you."

"I think she's okay," Gally would later whisper to Thomas one day, a contemplating look on his face before he leans over the edge of the railing they're on to spit on some poor guy's head beneath. A resounding cry means that he's hit his mark and Gally smirks. "I don't mind being around her, and she's nice enough." But Thomas knows that look in his eyes. Gally's belief in soulmates had been destroyed because of how his parents treated each other, but the moment he met Teresa, he had been different. It was like he was ready to believe again.

He was hoping that not all soulmates were vile and cruel and that some of them were happy together. Maybe that is what they all hoped for.

"If we don't end up finding our soulmates by the time we're thirty, do you want to get hitched?" Minho suggests, wiggles his eyebrows at Thomas and laughs even while the brunette shoves him off the fence. They were all grouped together, exhausted and tired because of their finals. Gally and Teresa were still dancing around each other, but it was evident that they'd settle down eventually. They were a perfect match, teasing and winding each other up for the competition. Rachel and Aris were almost always joined at the hip, giggling to themselves about something or another. Chuck would smile in a dazed, confused way and Thomas and Minho would then play tag with him because the younger boy loves that the best.

It's amazing, he comes to realize, later, when he watches his friends all get together on double dates, leaving Chuck and him to duke it out in playing cards, to see them so happy. Minho was accepted into a scholarship for his athletic skill; Teresa had finally asked Gally out after they tiptoed around each other for months. Aris and Rachel were continuously trying to outprank each other, and completely demolish Thomas and Chuck's team in Super Smash Bros. Thomas would always wonder about who his own soulmate was, but would instead smile and promise himself that he will find out soon enough. Soulmates usually only revealed themselves when you needed them most.

Even though he knew that not all soulmates were the best for each other, and not all soulmates were romantic, he knew, just knew, that he couldn't wait to meet his. He did not need to wonder about who they were or what they would be like. Maybe it was faulty to suggest that just because they were destined to be together - at least for a while - that they would be perfect. It wouldn't matter if they wanted to be with someone else, that was okay, because they would at least have each other in different ways. Thomas knew that no matter if they fought, if they threatened each other, then that would mean little to him if they looked at each other the way that his friends looked at their soulmates. Thomas knew love when he saw it.

He clung to the hope that someone, somewhere was waiting for him like he was for them.

Nobody ever said how much it would be devastating it would be, though, to wake up on that fateful day in May to a horrible heart clenching sensation.  Nobody could ever describe how painful it is to know, that once there had been someone out there for you, and in the next there wasn't. At 2:50 am, Thomas saw his red string turn black and fray, and he realized that nothing would ever be the same again.

 _I would have loved you._ He thinks, while he's trying to get over the pain that clings to his very soul.  _I was waiting for you but maybe it was really you waiting for me but I was too late. I'm so sorry._

 

..

 

Elsewhere, another boy set down the scissors, and learned to breathe again.


	3. Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't move from his bed. Thomas didn't have the energy to do anything, not even look over towards Teresa when she poked her head into the room. "Hey, Tom?" He closes his eyes and rolls over, pretending not to hear her. His hand is curled towards his chest, as if he were protecting it. But there was nothing _to_ protect. His soulmate was gone.
> 
> Or Thomas tries to deal with the aftermath of losing his soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, here you go. I thought that it was better short and sweet. Also to prove I'm not dead. I might not upload anything else for a while though considering that I have finals next week but I'll see how this goes.

_**3 months later.** _

His bed is warm.

Thomas is aware of this, aware of the blankets curled around his waist and the pillows that were smothering him on either side. The space next to his bed was empty, there was no echoing warmth, so crevice where a body might have once slept. There was nothing. Thomas curls onto his side and feels the space next to him, hands reaching out.

His room is decidedly cold.

He shuffles back into his blankets, pulling it tighter around himself and pulling a pillow overtop his head. There was an ache and weariness in his bones that couldn't be appeased. He simply didn't want to do anything today, or even better, for the rest of eternity. Thomas has felt like this for a long time, since the day his string had charred, and slowly it felt like he was wearing himself down, running through loops. He didn't bother looking up when he hears his door creak open. "Hey, Tom?" Maybe if he pretended not to hear her, she would leave. The sound of feet against his carpet was enough for his shoulders to tense up. He draws his arm closer to himself, bringing his hand to his chest in a protective stance. But there was no reason for it - there was nothing  _to_ protect. His soulmate was gone.

"Tom, it's time to get up." Her hands are light on his shoulder, stroking soothingly along his shoulder blades. He makes a noncommittal noise; he swore he could hear a frown in that sigh of hers. "You know, I was like this too," she says, tugging away the pillows from his grasp. His eyes flit up and all he sees is a dark wave of hair. Her eyes are impossibly blue, pale and piercing as she tries to smile at him. "When I lost my soulmate," she continues, "I didn't move for days." She sits on his bed, folding her leg beneath her body. "It's an ache that never goes away," she says, softly, dark lashes pressing against her high cheekbones. She looks down, tugging on the string that was strung towards the open door. "But it's easier when there are people to help you."

"I'm not upset over it," he says, even though the words sound false on his own ears. "I'm just mad that you took that asshat from me." Teresa's lips curl upwards into a fond smile, and she lets out a breathless laugh.

"If it's worth anything, Gally still likes you," she hums. She dips her fingers beneath the covers and she's surprisingly cold when she brushes her fingertips against his arm. "Trust me, though, you don't need a soulmate to be yourself or to be happy."

Thomas nods, trying to find a smile but it's hard to put it on his face. It keeps slipping away and he’s left looking up at the ceiling, his eyes searching the little pinpricks and creases there as if each individual stroke was a piece of himself he was trying to find. "How am I still alive?" he whispers out, "When you lose your soulmate, people typically die, don't they?" She sits on the edge of his bed, a frown darkening her face.

"Yes, but you hadn't cemented a bond or anything yet," she frowns, fingers tapping against his skin. "So you wouldn't die from…" Her eyes widen fractionally before narrowing. "Tom," he could hear her worry in every letter of the nickname. "Tom, you aren't -"

"No, I'm not depressed or suicidal," he says, perhaps too quickly because her grip on his wrist tightens. "I just…" he lets out a sigh, simply laying there on the bed for a long moment. Teresa doesn't move from her perch, only frowning in concern at him. "You know how it is with soulmates, don't you?" He looks up into her eyes, and not for the first time is he thankful that they are friends. "Dating someone else isn't the same, right?" Teresa's lips thin out in a concerned look. "I don't think I could..." he trails off. Something had shifted that fateful night, when the string had turned black. “I just don’t think I could date anyone else really. Don’t you understand?”

Teresa smiles slightly, but her eyebrows furrow sadly. “Of course I do, Tom,” she says, her voice going quieter. “It’s never the same, especially if you’ve already met them, and dating anyone else – it is like a piece of you is missing, because you’re always looking for that special someone, just in case it’s some sort of fluke. It’s not. Tom, they’re really gone.“ He avoids her gaze as she continues, “There’s nothing that’s going to bring them back, but _you’re_ still here. _You’re_ still breathing. You still have friends and people who care for you. We all love you, Tom. Don’t waste away like this..”

He closes his eyes, lips turning down as he contemplates her words. He can feel her shift on the bed next to him, as if she’s trying to restrain herself from saying more. “Alright,” he says, his breath leaving his nose heavily. “But I need time, okay?”

He can feel her smile in the way her grip on him loosened, “Of course. Just don’t give up because your soulmate has.” She leans down, her lips pressing against the cool of his cheek. There is nothing behind it but a gesture of understanding and comfort. He finds himself leaning into the touch, and not for the first time, is he glad that they’re friends. “Please, Tom, if you need any of us, we’re always here.”

“Right.” He says, tone soft and resigned but almost reverent for her to leave. Instead she lies down beside him and pulls his head to her chest and they talk, sometimes quiet but with time, his laughter comes easier, his smiles a little brighter, and he supposes that eventually, he’ll be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: He's not okay.


	4. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt hadn't expected for his temper to rise so quickly, for their conversation to turn so dark. “Don’t be so bloody surprised that I’m happier now that …” he trails off, jaw clenching. “I’m sorry, it’s just – of all the people, I don’t think _you’d_ have the right to tell me whether or not I’m happy.”
> 
> “You’re right,” Alby says, finally, when the minutes drag on between them. “You’re absolutely right.” He doesn’t say anything else for a while. “I may not have a right to judge if you’re really happy, or even if you should be, now that your soulmate is -” he stops there, then continues on, as if he’s said the ominous word of ‘dead’. “But I think that as someone who is trying to become your friend, I can worry, can't I?”
> 
> And just like that, Newt remembered why he had cared so much for him, no matter how hard he tried not to, no matter how much it hurt him in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finished my last final about four hours ago and I finally decided to finish this, so here you go. (On a brighter note, I might be able to get the next chapter out sooner.) Thanks for everybody who wished me luck.
> 
> On a side note, there may be some inconsistencies with the whole red string of fate/soulmate thing, so, uh, don't be surprised if it shows up later.

Newt could feel the back of his shirt stick to him, could feel a dull heat coil across his skin. The Dead Weather café was small and quiet, a place for him to clear his thoughts. No such thing would be happening today, he supposed. His gaze swoops across the small holding, looking for familiar faces among the crowds but finding none. He wants to convince himself that his ex-friend wouldn’t come, that perhaps it was better this way. Still, he sits down by the window where he could easily see if anybody came in through the front door.

He checks his phone for messages from Brenda or Jeff before clicking it off and placing it face down on the table. He stares out the window, where dark summer storm clouds were gathering, and darkening parts of the sidewalk. It had been chilly on the way here, nothing like he would experience back in England. It wasn’t yet with the bitter winds of autumn yet, but it was getting there. “Glad that you could make it,” comes a familiar tone of voice and he looks up.

“Alby,” he breaths out in a way of greeting, feeling his shoulders relax despite himself. He frowns in surprise when Alby slides a cup of coffee across the table to him. He takes a cautious sip; black with a short of vanilla and a cream. Just how he had always liked his coffee in high school. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he smiles easily although there’s a strain to his eyes. “That’s how you like it, yeah?”

Newt nods quickly, and drags his gaze back down to the cup, his fingers tapping against the edges. He forces himself to look elsewhere, looking at everything and everyone but the boy who sat across from him. Alby wasn’t tall or imposing, and in fact, they almost stood at the same height. Alby had the broader shoulders and unshaven stubble scratching across his face, while Newt had the angular features and swooping shoulders and a graceful neckline. Their statures were almost completely different, and their postures were anything but friendly.

“So,” they begin at the same time, but Newt is the first to clamp his mouth shut and close his eyes and lean back, as if it might help detach him from the situation. Even though Alby had been a friend to him for the longest time, it was hard to forgive someone for betraying you. “You first.”

Alby makes a thankful noise before he scratches at the side of his nose, which Newt notices when he opens his eyes again. He’s nervous, which is a first, considering that Alby had usually been the friendlier and outgoing one in high school. Almost involuntarily Newt snorts at the memory, at how far away it seemed. Alby raises his eyebrows, but when he notices Newt’s otherwise unamused expression his own smile slips away.

“I wanted to apologize, first of all,” Alby says, quietly. “And, I guess, to thank you for coming here.” Newt says nothing about the latter murmur.

“Bit late for an apology, don’t you think?” Newt says, fingertips digging into the Styrofoam cup. Alby makes a show of taking a swig from his own coffee before placing it back down on the table. There was no friendliness in his voice, and the darker haired boy seemed to have picked up on it.

“Still, better late than never, right?” Alby says, carefully, sounding each syllable out and staring out the window past Newt’s shoulder. “But, Newt, listen-”

“Newton.” The blond boy clears his throat purposefully. Alby’s expression is baffled, eyebrows furrowing and his jaw slackening briefly. Alby looks completely accosted, surprise bleeding into his facial structure and it was obvious that he hadn’t been expecting that.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, tone almost disbelieving.

“I’m … I’d prefer if you’d call me Newton, instead,” Newt says, frowning, and pulling at the sleeve of his turtleneck. He closes his eyes, and takes a moment to breathe everything in. The Dark Weather coffee shop smells as it always does, like leather and book binding and chestnut. He almost wishes that Alby chose somewhere else to meet, because now it will be all the can think about when he visits it. It was relatively close to the college campus, where he intended to go in the fall, and he’d really rather not avoid it now. “I only want my friends to call me Newt.” His voice goes a bit rough, and he swallows quickly, hoping that Alby got the implication and didn’t demand an explanation.

“Alright,” he responds with, instead. Alby cocks his head and frowns severely. “If it makes you feel better.” His fingertips trace along the rim of his coffee cup and his eyes involuntarily follow the action. Newt could almost feel the nervousness bleed off of the other male, could feel the shift in emotion, almost thick and choking around them. “I called you here today because I wanted to apologize,” Alby continues carefully, “I didn’t … _do_ anything when they bullied you – I – should have done _something_.” Newt says nothing, knowing that he’ll say the wrong thing if he opens his mouth. “But I wanted to apologize, at the very least. I wasn’t a very good friend and then you …” Alby motions vaguely to Newt’s hand, trailing off. Newt protectively jerks his hand back, away from the cup and almost sending it flying, but he knows what Alby means. In some sort of twisted, demented way, Alby seemed to think that Newt’s accident involving his soulmate was tied with him. Maybe it had been – not that Newt would ever tell him that.

“It’s okay,” he says, even though it’s not. Alby must hear it in his voice because he shifts uneasily on his chair. “It’s not your fault.” He doubts he’s ever spoken such harsh words. “I mean, yes, you obviously should have done _something_ instead of letting them -,” he presses the cup to his lips and forces a grim smile. “Nevermind. I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past, isn’t it? I’m _happier,_ now.” His finger twitches, where he’s wearing a black band around his pinkie, tight fitting and heavy – a trademark to display that someone was in mourning, that they had lost their soulmate.

Threads snapped when their soulmates died – or in his case, was cut – and usually the sight caused a lot of people to go into nervous mutterings and avoidance. A metal band didn’t help much to deter them, to settle their nerves, but maybe seeing a black thread was worse than seeing something that represented it. It helped, at least a little. Still, some people wore bands – white or gold for those whose threads had not yet formed because their soulmate wasn’t born yet, black or silver for those who wanted to dissuade people from assuming their soulmate was alive or that they implied that they did not care for them, and other fancier bands – usually wedding rings that some chose to wear on their little fingers to show that they married their soulmate although it was usually uncommon.

It’s surprising, really, how easily your thread can wrap around your finger and for you to slip a ring over it – and because not everybody saw everybody else’s soulmates string – aside from the occasionally glance out of the corner of your eye -, it was perfect for them to hide their eligibility status.

“You’re happy?” Alby repeats, and Newt starts out of his thoughts. He pulls his lips into a frown and shifts his gaze to the window. Even though it was summer, it had been cold, cold enough for Newt to decide to wear a navy turtleneck and to decide to take the bus here.

“Yeah, I suppose I am,” he responds, voice clipping. “Is that a bloody problem, Alby?”

Alby’s expression tenses, “It’s just – you’re happy? Really? Newt, you lost your _soulmate_ months ago, and you’re happy? That doesn’t … I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t say that I was happy that my soulmate was gone, now did I?” Newt snaps, curling his fingers into his palms, nail leaving impressions in his skin. “I just said I was happy. I didn’t say why, I didn’t say how or when, but I am. Maybe I’m happier that the bloody peanut gallery isn’t taunting me because I was in love with someone who wasn’t my soulmate!”

He’s aware that his voice is rising, that other patrons were looking over, but at this exact moment, he couldn’t find it within himself to care. “Back in England,” he says, voice lower and harsher, “they didn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not you were with your soulmate. Yeah, they encouraged it, but they didn’t shove you into lockers or make your life a living hell just because you wanted to end up with someone who wasn’t them. You bloody Americans have to ruin _everything,_ don’t you?” He falls back into his chair, glaring down into his cup in anger. “So don’t be so bloody surprised that I’m happier now that …” he trails off, jaw clenching. He huffs out in irritation and drags a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, it’s just – of all the people, I don’t think you’d have the right to tell me whether or not I’m happy.”

“You’re right,” Alby says, finally, when the minutes drag on between them. “You’re absolutely right.” He doesn’t say anything else for a while, and when Newt finally takes a swig from his coffee, it’s stale and cold and curls down his throat like ice. “I may not have a right to judge if you’re really happy, or even if you _should_ be, now that your soulmate is -” he stops there, then continues on, as if he’s said the ominous word of ‘dead’. “But I think that as someone who is trying to become your friend, I can worry.”

The anger inside of Newt deflates, the bubble popping and dissipating. The only comfort he allowed for himself was to let his head drop into his hands, breathing quietly. He could feel a twinge, a slight jolt of affection run through him, at Alby’s concern. Even months later, after he had promised himself that he was over his ex-best friend, but there it was. It was Alby’s friendly concern that had blindsided Newt which had pulled him under the rug and to confess his feelings, only to get walked all over by the school.

“I don’t think we can be friends,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying to hide how red his eyes became. Alby’s mouth thins into concerned grimace. “Not yet. You need to give me time. We can try,” he says, finally, “but we might not get anywhere.” He crinkles his cup in his hand, watching it break into pieces.

“That’s okay. I’ll take anything that I can get,” he smiles kindly. “I don’t know if it matters but … I missed you.”

Newt nods. “Yeah, me too,” he says honestly, chest hurting.

“Did you want to meet Ben?” Alby asks, and Newt’s eyes snap immediately back to him, staring in stunned surprise. His mouth is curling to form a rejection, to deny this chance. He couldn’t bear to see someone who had ruined his friendship with his friend, but he also wanted to know who had made him so happy when he couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he’s suddenly aware of how _angry_ he sounds. “Baby steps, Alby. Please.” He bites at the corner of his lip, “We have to take our friendship nice and slow, okay? I don’t … meeting your soulmate isn’t something that I can handle right now.”

Alby nods, picking at his own cup of coffee. “Right, sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I just -you hadn’t met him yet, so I just thought to offer but – shit, that was stupid.”

Newt smiles softly, “Yeah, it kind of was.” He wants to say that it felt easier, sitting across from Alby and giving him another chance to be his friend, but he honestly felt like he was pushing himself too much and too hard. He doesn’t know how long their friendship would last this time without him abandoning ship, so to speak.

“You’ve been accepted into Glade College, haven’t you?” The dark boy says, quick to change the topic. Newt forces himself to relax, to accept that Alby was making an attempt at small talk now, at helping ease the burden of an awkward conversation. “I’m going to Wicked Uni,” he bites his lip, considering. “Going to go into politics, I think. Put my class president skills to use.” He smiles, dark eyes flicking up to Newt’s, silently prompting for him to join in with his selected major.

“I,” Newt frowns, running the tip of his tongue over his chapped lips. “I think I might go into biochem or some kind of health sciences.” He frowns, picking at the corners of the Styrofoam cup, completely demolishing it past its previous state of ruin. “I haven’t made up my mind just yet.”

“You’ll be good in that, I’d think.”

Newt offers a shrug. “Yeah, maybe.” Their conversation patters off, and Newt takes this moment to simply tear apart the cup, shredding the logo on the side off. “Is this all you wanted to talk to me about?” His hands feel gross, sticky with coffee. He grabs a napkin from the holster and wipes his fingers, scowling when scraps stuck. “Or am I free to go now from this interrogation?”

“I’m not keeping you prisoner, am I?”

“No, but I have things to do yet today,” Newt says, standing up and slipping a tip onto the table. He forces a smile that feels more like a grimace onto his face. “I’m going to go meet with Brenda, first.”

Something in Alby’s expression changes then, “Are you still friends with Jeff and Clint, too?” At Newt’s affirming nod he lets out a heavy breath, “Right, of course. I’m just surprised that you’re friends with them, still.” Newt offers a shrug as a response. He knows that most people rarely remain in contact with high school friends, and yet for him it had been different. Or even yet, quite potentially dating one of them. He remains quiet at this, does not want to see the other boy’s reaction, afraid that to compensate for losing his own soulmate that he had borrowed someone else’s, even if they were friends first.

“Yeah, well, they weren’t the ones to sit idly by when I was tormented,” Newt instead responds with and Alby’s expression crumbled. He wants to apologize on reflex but he stops himself. He’s still sore, he knows. He can’t get over something like that so soon. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Alby, I really have to go.” He smiles and swoops his defecated cup into his hands. “I’ll see you around, I suppose.”

“See you,” Alby frowns.

Newt nods curtly and with a flourish, disposes of the cup pieces and walks out of the café. He’d like to hope that they could repair their friendship, but wishing for things only got you so far in life he knew, before something was bound to give.


	5. Gally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gally bears witness to Thomas taking a step forward. It's almost a relief, especially after all the steps he's taken back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some terms used in the fic that are expressed but not explicitly stated.  
> Pneuma is the scientific term for soul mates, stemmed from the Greek word that means "breath" or "spirit". Sometimes interchangeable with "psyche" or "psuche".  
> Psyromantic/sexual is a term for those who would prefer to date their soulmate or only date their soulmate. Psyphobia is the fear of falling in love with your soulmate. (Newt is later diagnosed with this.) Aginromantic/sexual is deprived from agin which means "against". Refers to the people who dates everyone except their soulmate (may be linked to psyphobia). Aginphobia is the fear/disgust of falling in love with someone who isn't their soulmate.
> 
> Also, Gally is surprisingly easy to write a POV for?

Rain smacked against the windshield, the sound of the wipers scraping against his window sounded dully through the glass. Gally could see the dark clouds overhead, his fingers twitching slightly along the rim of the steering wheel. He could see Thomas staring outside the window, resting his forehead against the glass, his breath fogging it in small designs. "I'm going to go get the mail," he speaks up, his voice being the only sound other than the wipers and their breathing.

"Okay," Thomas replies mutely, barely any other words of acknowledgement. Gally sighs, thinking that the single word was better than nothing at all.

He sets his hand along Thomas' knee - he tries not to remember when his hand had last been there, it would only hurt the both of them - and pats there. He hoped Thomas didn't sense how awkward he was - but then the boy snorts in amusement so it probably hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Better return soon or I'll miss you," he says, voice croaking, empty of any other emotion. Gally shifts uncomfortably.  _"If you don't make it back, I'm going to date Minho instead." "I'm just going to the bathroom, idiot!"_ He shakes his head, trying to dispel the memory quickly. He notices Thomas shift, eyes dark and narrowed and peeking at him. "Aren't you going?" he asks, tiredly.

Gally's fingers scramble for the door handle quickly, "Right." He can't stand the look Thomas is looking at him, like he had just guessed where Gally's thoughts had gone. "Don't start the car on fire while I'm gone."

Thomas makes a sound of indignation and rests his head against the glass again, tracing his fingertip across it, the seatbelt drawn loosely across his torso. Gally hesitates again - he's always hesitating these days, he's aware, always around Thomas, never sure what to do - before he says, quickly, "See you." He pitches himself out of the car, afraid to be in the suffocating air any longer.

He can't stand the sight of how far Thomas had fallen.

Bringing up the collar of his shirt, he dodges around the Jeep to run into the store, the loud jingle overhead signalling his entrance. He could feel water speckles dampen his face, so he runs the back of his hand across his skin and gives an awkward nod to the cashier who looked at him. She looks at him from beneath her dark hair and frowns, before going back to coiling and uncoiling her soulmate string. Gally turns away, quickly, and moves towards the post office. He fishes his mail keys out of his pocket, fumbles with it before he clicks it into  _317,_ and opens it to draw out the letters inside.

Tucking them under his arm, he closes the mail door and locks it. He gives a quick acknowledging wave to the cashier again on his way out, then mentally prepares himself for the harsh wind before he steps outside. He draws his head down and pulls his shoulders together, almost slipping once before he made it into his vehicle. Thomas barely looks over at him, only makes a soft "hey" in greeting.

"It's gonna start raining cats and dogs, I'd think," he says, trying to be humorous but it comes out sounding dry and forced. Thomas makes a noncommittal sound. Gally frowns at the response - or rather, lack of one - and sighs. "Okay," he says, but not much else and decides that it's better for them if they were quiet. Gally tosses the envelopes onto the dashboard. "Whatever, since Teresa isn't going to be here for another month," he sees Thomas wince and he feels a flash of shame for being proud of his soulmate when here, his best friend - once sort of boyfriend - sat, soulmateless.  _But it's not your fault he doesn't have one anymore, is it? No._ He feels guilt for even thinking that.  _I shouldn't feel bad just because I have one and he doesn't, right?_

"Right," he clears his throat, "So. Teresa will be gone for another month - visiting her family in Texas, see - so it's just going to be you and me for the next month and I wanted to know if you had anything you wanted to do?" Thomas gives a sort of shrug, his shoulder bumping against the passenger seat. Gally frowns, and puts his Jeep into reverse, pulling out of the parking space. "What about Deadpool? D'you want to go see that?"

"..You don't like Marvel, though." Thomas says, almost sounding amused.

Gally drums his fingers against the steering wheel, scowling. "Well, I'm fresh out of ideas, then, Tomboy," he says, sighing through his nose.

"Nobody said we had to hang out anymore," Thomas says, turning to face him. His eyebrows pull down, and he looks confused almost. "Just because Teresa isn't here doesn't mean you _have_ to hang out with me. You could just drop me off at Rachel's."

"Yeah, well, I don't  _want_ you to become Rachel's problem," he says, almost angrily and without thinking. It's when Thomas doesn't reply immediately - of course, he doesn't do that too much nowadays, so it hadn't been surprising - that Gally realizes what exactly he had said and implied. "Shit, Thomas. I didn't .." Conveniently, he stops at a red-light. He's aware of the stretching silence between them, of the tenseness that was between them that wasn't there before. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I'm a problem?" Thomas didn't sound sad, or surprised, just accepting and resigned of the fact. Gally can't bear to look at him, afraid of what he'll see in the younger's eyes.

"No?" Gally says, the word sounding too much like a question. He steps on the gas a bit too forcefully and they lurch forwards, but then he smooths it out. "No, you're not." His grip tightens, and his throat feels dry. Thomas doesn't respond for a moment, so the quiet continues to stretch on. Not for the first time, Gally is aware of how much Thomas had changed - from the loud, bubbly, in your face and Gally's saving grace when he had to escape his parent's abusive blows, to this quiet, sullen guy who Gally barely recognized.  _Maybe it's about time that someone helped him instead,_ he thinks, remembering Thomas' gentle hands on the sides of his face, the way he leaned in, tentative and slow. Careful, like Thomas was afraid that he'd hurt him. Back then, Thomas had saved him from a dark road, showed him that not everybody was bad. "You never were a problem," he says, quietly.

"…Thank you," Thomas says after a moment, hand reaching out across the console to fleet across Gally's wrist. He almost swerves them onto the sidewalk.

"Jaysus!" he shouts, quickly, and Thomas laughs. It's familiar, loud and unsteady, like it just suddenly bubbled up and he couldn't contain it. For the first time in a long while, Gally has hopes that the Thomas that he knew and had fallen in love with - Teresa was his soulmate, yes, but there was always something about that first love, wasn't there? - was buried beneath. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

"And make Teresa a widow before you're even married?" Thomas responds, before pattering off unsurely. "No." Gally tries not to wince at the suggestion. Sure, they may have gone on a few dates, but they weren't even exclusively dating, let alone engaged. Still, the thought caused his heart to beat unsteadily - he's aware of Thomas watching him from the corner of his eye.

"Listen, Thomas, I-" He begins to say, not sure where he's going. He's almost thankful that Thomas interrupts, because he was almost afraid that he would say,  _I had someone else in mind other than Teresa_ , but he manages to keep his mouth shut. He had no idea where that thought had come from.

"Was there a letter for me?"

"What?" Gally spares a glance and their lives when he looks over, his smooth eyebrows pivoting downwards. Thomas echoes the question, looking shocked. It is at this point that Gally is aware of how pale Thomas had gotten, despite it being summer - and rainy as hell outside - with angry bruises beneath his eyes from lack of sleep and his hair disheveled. He looks sick, his usual cinnamon skin looking paler than usual. Thomas pulls at his baggy sweater - Gally is aware of how thin he's gotten - and averts his gaze.

"Eyes on the road," Thomas croaks out, and Gally turns to look through the window again.

"Don't tell me what to do, Murphy," he says, quick on his tongue as always. He sees Thomas try for a smile, but all he gets is a slight crease around his mouth instead.

"Even when we were together, I couldn't get you to do anything," he muses and that hits Gally hard. A stilted silence falls across them before Thomas fidgets - Gally doesn't turn to look, his eyes still burn and he doesn't think he could handle it just yet.

"Why'd you ask if a letter came in for you?"

"I - … sent in my transcripts across the country," He beings carefully, "To New York." Gally frowns. New York was a couple states away from New Jersey, where they had grown up together. They had some of the best schools in the US, Gally knew. It was where Teresa had planned to go to study oncology. The part of New Jersey that they had been from hadn't offered all of the courses they they had wanted to take, and certain areas in other states offered all courses in relatively small areas so that they could be together. Glade College and WICKED Uni were the post-secondary that Teresa had talked to him about, that Gally wouldn't have doubted that everybody had checked up on - but again, it was in a couple states over, away from friends and family. It is, also, ironically, one of the seven states that were less prejudiced about soul mates with legal laws set in place against that discrimination. "I've been talking with someone there," Thomas continues, voice wavering. "Dr. Ava Paige, do you know her?"

Gally frowns, not knowing of the name but he nods anyways.

"She studies psychology," Thomas adds after a moment, "and I - I have asked her if I could study under her, in one of her classes. To become a therapist, see." Gally pulls to the side of the road, because he can't focus on both this and and his friend who sounded so close to breaking. "I thought, that if I can't help myself, then I could at least help someone else, right?" His voice quavers, eyes wide and white in the growing darkness outside. "Specifically with people who lost their soulmates."

Gally turns in his seat, watching Thomas but not reaching out - not quite knowing  _how_ to. "Thomas," he starts, then stops.

"And I just  _can't_ be  _here_ anymore, not when the memory is still fresh," Thomas speaks, clutching his hands into his jeans. Gally works his throat, trying to find the right words to say. "And I'm trying to be independent, I am. But it's just so …  _hard_ picking yourself up when you're down and - Gally, you're all my best friends that I don't … I don't want to be left behind when you leave for colleges in another state. I want to go with you, and live those stupid college dreams that we've always talked about." His voice breaks and Gally stares, unable to do anything. "But I  _can't …_ I can't  _do_ this anymore."

Gally unbuckles himself from his seat and reaches across, mindful not to hit the shift gear and tries to pull Thomas into a hug. "It's okay, it's okay," he says, because it's all he  _can_ say. "I'm here, and I'm not leaving you," he promises. "Never."  _Not like your soulmate did,_ he promises quietly.  _I won't ever hurt you like that._

Thomas does not cry into Gally's shoulder - he is stronger than that, but he lets the dark blond try to comfort him as best he could, with awkward pats and repeated phrases. Eventually, Thomas pushes Gally's shoulder away a bit forcefully. "Look at us, acting like snivelling babies," he says, voice stronger than before.

"No, it's only you who was acting like that," he says, trying to smile but it feels like it's breaking his face in half. For some reason it  _relieved_ him to have Thomas finally break down.  _'To heal the cracks,'_ he remembers Teresa saying once,  _'Sometimes you have to break yourself.'_

Thomas shoves him again forcefully in the shoulder, forcing him back into his seat properly. "Shut up," he says, trying to sound joyful but it comes out sounding sour. He tries to smile apologetically but Gally waves it off.

"I'm trying to imagine it," Gally says, quietly, frowning despite himself, as he drives down the road again. He has his hand resting on the console, palm upturned -  _just in case, just in case -_ but his eyes were trained on the road. "You, as Dr. Murphy, world-renowned therapist. Sounds odd."

"That's if I get through this," Thomas mutters darkly. Gally blinks, unsurprised at this.

"When," Gally is just as quick to correct. He can feel Thomas' eyes burn the side of his head. "You have us to take care of you, dork."

"Sap," he hears Thomas cough.

"You love it," Gally shoots back, quick and easy and it's almost like they're heading back into the people they used to be. Almost.

"Yeah." Thomas' voice turns softer, fonder, and something in Gally's gut warms, "Yeah, I think I do." This time, after a moment's hesitation, when Gally twitches his fingers along the flat of the console, Thomas takes his hand and twines their fingers like they used to, no matter how much Gally would externally protest against it. It is like that, that Gally continues to drive, hand on the steering wheel and the other grasping his friend's. They drove like that all the way home and when they pulled into the driveway, the sun poked through the clouds and Gally hoped that the worst was finally behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Guys. It's actually kind of difficult to alternate between Thomas and Newt's POV so I wanted to know if you had a preference for who you wanted to see the majority of the chapters revolve around for a while? (It'll be easier on me and possibly quicker to update, then. Maybe.) Unless you all want me to keep on with alternating? (It might take a while to update each chapter, then, but I have no problem either way.)


	6. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt wakes up from a nightmare, his sister is worried, and he thinks bull sharks are really boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning(s)** : Talk about suicide, past physical assault, and mentions of death threats.
> 
> (If this chapter isn't too clear on Newt's backstory, please, let me know.)

When Newt first woke up in the stillness of the night, it was not to jump upright and clutch his chest or slap a hand to his mouth, although the latter seemed more likely because he could feel bile rise. Instead, he lay down in bed, feeling his heart thunder in his chest. He works his throat, but it had never been easy for him to swallow when he's laying down, so he slowly sits up, untangling his feet carefully from the sheets. He can hear soft whistles of birds outside the window. He stares across at the wall, wondering if there was a way for him to forget his entire life except for the necessities to live, like language and walking and going to the bathroom. He wants to forget the past couple years of his life, wants to wipe it clean and scrub it away until it is nothing but a raw but fading memory. Until it is only him and his hope for the future.

Instead he stares across his bed, his stomach still feeling queasy and haunting images moving behind his eyelids. Slowly, be raises his hands to trace along phantom bruises and scrapes, taking shuddering breaths of relief when he didn't feel anything. He glances over at his clock, feeling his heart thrum against his rib cage with each exhale.  _6:43 am._ He runs a hand down his face and peels his shirt off of his back, sticky with sweat, tossing it to the side and crawled back beneath the blankets.

He feels sick and beyond nauseous, but he didn't dare pull at his phone, charging beside him, to text Brenda or Jeff. This wasn't their business - he didn't want to drag them back into this mess. He lays there, in the silence of his room, hearing the dull sound of his pedestal fan blowing air across his room. He'd like to think that he could fall asleep again, but he couldn't - he saw the imprints of images behind his eyelids and he just couldn't get it out of his head.

Newt throws the blankets back unceremoniously and shivers when he feels his fan whir some air onto him. He takes a step away from his warm retreat and into the hallway, leaving the door ajar so it could cool down the rest of the house. It hadn't seemed to matter, because it's dreadfully hot in the hallway too, so he's glad he's abandoned his shirt on his bed when he did. He mourns the fact that he's wearing plaid drawstring pajama bottoms that touch his ankles, though, but he doesn't turn back to change - he is afraid of the memories that are drowning him in that room.

Unlike his house back in Britain, he doesn't know how far his door can be pushed until it creaks or where the floorboards groaned beneath his weight in this house. Even though he's spent the past couple years in this house - nearing five - it is still foreign to him. He knows it's because he's afraid to settle down here, but the US has already left its imprint on him. He doubts he'd be able to think of this as his home. He passes Sonya's room on the right, rolling onto the pads of his feet as he creeps past, hoping she's not awake and won't hear the racket he's making.

The creep into the kitchen goes fairly uneventful, and he manages to maneuver around the kitchen well enough without it being lit - granted, he assumes he's bruised his shin when he ran into a chair - and flicks on the light. It's a small kitchen, with weak counter tops and an old table that he had been told that Sonya had bought at a garage sale. He pulls open the cupboards, looking through contents and finally pulling out a mug and setting it on the counter. He shuffles through a lower cupboard to pull out the kettle, and fills it with water then places it on the coiled stovetop. As he waits for the water to boil, he pulls a couple tea bags out of the cupboard - his attempts at convincing his sister to get coffee instead have proved futile.

He throws a couple pieces of bread into the toaster, then sits at the table and promptly waits for either one to finish. It's the water that boils first - he's quick to swoop it off of the stovetop with a cloth, hoping that the whistling hadn't woken up his sister. Newt waits a moment, listening for any tell-tale signs. There's nothing so he fills his mug and slips his teabag in, putting against the kettle. Of course, by the time he's done all of this, his toast is beyond salvable, but he steps over and takes the burnt pieces and attempts to make some sort of breakfast with them - which, in truth, wasn't all that great. All he could taste was charred bread and feel the awful crunch beneath his teeth.

"G'morning," he hears his sister's familiar voice says gravelly, worn slippers scratching against the floor. She opens the fridge and pulls out the one percent milk and splashes it into a cup and sits down across from him. She frowns at his choice of food. "Uh. What  _is_ that?" He looks up and over at her. She's placed her hands atop of the table and curled her fingers around her cup, milk smeared across her upper lip. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun with the dual ponytails that he knows that she uses, long strands of blond falling in front of her face and across her brow. She has clear skin, and high cheekbones like he does, with similar eyes but a darker brown than he has, and there's a smattering of freckles across her nose that he doesn't have unless he tans. They shared the same willowy frame - although she had narrower shoulders - and almost the same height, in fact, she stood taller than her girlfriend by a couple of inches.

"Breakfast?" he responds, quirking an eyebrow and wincing internally at the awful taste.

She wrinkles her snub nose, looking disgusted. "Right," she sighs, dropping her cheek onto her hand and staring at him. "That doesn't look too great, Newtie."

"It isn't," he responds curtly and takes another bite.

Sonya frowns, "There isn't anything else you could have put on that?"

Newt gives a half-hearted shrug, "There's not much else I  _could_ put on. You don't buggin' shop, so we're out of most stuff." He sees her wince and the brief sarcasm that he showed her made him feel guilty. Ever since their parents' deaths, she had been shouldering most of the weight of taking care of him. The government hadn't been too helpful, either, only sending her meagre child support cheques to help with it. He knew that atop of her baking classes that she had gone to America for - who was he kidding, he knew that she was the romantic type who followed her string, it only helped that she had classes she could take in the US - she had taken as many jobs as she could, just to support the both of them. Harriet, Sonya's soulmate, helped whenever she could, but being tasked with another city didn't help much. Newt, himself, had gotten a job when he was legally able to - in addition to odd jobs here and there - but you could only do so much. "Sorry," he says, because he means it.

She only sighs and shakes her head, "It's alright." She drums her fingers against the tabletop and leans across, "What do you say we actually go out somewhere? Just the two of us?"

Newt frowns, staring into his mug of tea and takes a slow sip, hoping to drown out the taste of charred toast. "Um." Is the intelligent thing that he could say. "Where?"

Sonya's expression breaks a bit, and Newt realizes how little time they've spent together - how often he had avoided her, especially when Harriet was around. It was nothing but a painful reminder that she had something that he didn't. Something that he had chosen to lose. There's a burn in his chest so he quickly drops his mug and offers a slow smile. He feels almost  _scared_ that she'll catch onto him, that she could simply  _look_ at him and could be able to tell how close he had been to losing not just his soulmate, but everything else as well. Was he acting well enough? Could she tell that he wasn't as devastated as he should be about losing a soulmate he didn't know?

"Your hands are shaking," she tells him and he frowns, clenching his fingers around the mug's handle and trying to keep as straight a face as he could.

"Sorry, just a restless night," he tells her and she smiles gently - tentatively, as if she were afraid to hurt him.

"Oh." She pauses, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He is quick to shake his head, but he lets her slip her hands into his. "You can tell me anything, I hope you know that." His brain immediately jumps to the _one_ thing that he could never tell her. He couldn't - he knows how much she loves her own soulmate, knows how much it'd affect her to know that he had separated himself from his completely, even though he'd like to think that she'd understand why. So instead he purses her lips and forces a small smile.

"Yes, I know. I just - thinking about all the places you'd want to go. I hope it's not the zoo, I've seen enough bloody animals in my classes in high school, thank you very much." She laughs shortly at that and something in him hums. This happiness - this joy that he feels with her - it was true and genuine and not forced like he'd expect of a soulmate. He doesn't have to be someone he's not with her, he doesn't have to let her do anything to him that he doesn't want to do - he could get up and leave, if he wanted. But she's sweet and kind and everything that he needs. Why would he ever want anything more?

"Of course, not the bloody zoo," she teases him, her fingertips warm in his hands as she squeezes. "But we're not going anywhere unless you're wearing proper clothes. You want to look cracking, got that?"

Newt raises an eyebrow, "You saying I don't always?" She mockingly puts a hand to her mouth and laughs into it, but he can't miss the pinched look in her eyes, the tight way that she held his hands. She was afraid to let him go - and he was afraid to leave her. Maybe that would be why he so readily agreed to go with her wherever she wanted.

 

It was a mistake, he thinks, dully.

"You'd think bull sharks would be far more exciting than this." Sonya laughs at his comment and taps her fingertips against the glass. "Hey, don't do that - it literally has a sign, right there - don't do that." Sonya smiles meekly at him before resuming her stance on tapping the glass. He rolls his eyes fondly at her and looks through the glass again, watching the powerful competitors swim lazily through the water in circles. "Is Harry coming back soon?" he asks her and Sonya leans away from the glass.

"Hm?" she asks, but her eyes are clear and focused. She knew what Newt had asked of her. After a brief pause, she considers, "Yes. I'd think so - she's over in New Jersey, I think. Helping out with some last minute paperwork about deceased soulmates." Newt frowns, feeling a shiver run through him. The police, as issued through the government, did follow up reports on individuals who have lost their soulmate, usually at certain intervals - a month, three months, then six and a year, then a half a year and finally at two. It was a law that required every person to report to the police - thus, the government - if a soulmate passed or their string … broke, such as in the case of Newt's - although they certainly didn't know that -. The date and time of death was marked down for legal records and the police force ensured that they didn't resort to drugs or alcohol within that time frame, considering the mass amount of criminals nowadays was due to loss of soulmates or soulmate abuse.

Newt knew, through online searches, that there was even an application that someone could send to the SRU - the Soulmate Recovery Unit, because most people didn't like the term of pneuma, even if that was the technical term for it- to privately research into who your soulmate was, or narrow down the possibilities, considering there was a couple billion or so people in the world. As far as Newt knew, they did pretty well - if the timing is accurate, which it usually was for traumatic experiences like that, they could narrow it down to a dozen or so people, and even further if you knew what direction your own string had been pulling in the time of the incident. It brought some people closure. Newt knew that Harriet, Sonya's girlfriend and soulmate, wasn't an official part of the SRU but she had helped the government officials get a hold of the official time of death records. Newt didn't know why they bothered with that - it was fairly sad enough to lose a soulmate, why go through the trouble of documenting it? There was probably some legal issues that he didn't want to think about.

"Damn," Newt says, because he's just realized he hadn't said anything in the past couple of minutes. "Do you think they're holding up okay?"

Sonya gives a quick shrug, "I'd hope so. Unlike mum and dad …" She paused, stiffening, but kept her eyes trained on the glass, "… they hadn't formed the bond, yet. They don't - well, they simply don't feel the heartache that comes with losing a soulmate. So it might not be as … awful." Newt nods, curling his fingers into his palms and counts to three in his head, hoping that he's timed his pitiful expression right. "I'm sorry," Sonya says after a moment and he makes a small jerky nod of his head as acknowledgement. "I shouldn't be bringing this up with you."

"It's okay, I'm over it," he tells her, but that must have been the wrong thing to say because she frowns and reaches out, twining her fingers with his. He's glad that he's on the left side of her - he doesn't know how he'd feel if he had to be anywhere close to her string.

"Losing your soulmate isn't something you can easily get over," she tells him. He cringes at her words. "Dad can account for that. But, Newt, you don't have to go through this alone - look, I know, it wasn't easy to go through all those things you did, just because you …" Her voice becomes clipped, and he knows she's forcing the words out. "Just because you liked _that_ boy, and then for you to …" Her voice shakes, wavering, but then she stills. Newt holds his breath, knowing what she's going to say but hoping she wouldn't. "I don't want you to kill yourself just because you lost them."

And there it was. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

_Inhale. Exhale._

"I'm not … suicidal, if that's what you want to know," he says, and maybe his voice is a bit too loud because people look over, but then quickly avert their gaze and shuffle on past as if they've caught on fire. " _Nobody_ is - nobody is threatening me anymore, either. I really doubt I'd kill myself over this."

"But other people would." His head jerks, but she doesn't stop, doesn't seem to notice his cue for her to shut up. "Newt, they almost _killed_ you because you liked him!" Her voice wavers and as if on some unspoken level, the bull shark that swam in the tank before them knew that this was a sentimental moment because he swam forward and bopped his nose against the glass.  _If you've ever got yourself in a bind with a shark,_ he faintly recalls Brenda telling him.  _Whack him right in the nose! Really sensitive, right there._ He presses his hand against the glass.  _You don't have to be in pain, too,_ he thinks, quietly.

"Harriet was there, I wouldn't have died," he tells her, stiffening as her grip on his hand tightens. "Those gits wouldn't have, promise." The phantom bruises ached again and he unwitting used his free hand to press his fingers into his ribs.

"That's hard to promise when you broke your ankle - _again -_ and you had to be hospitalized," she tells him, voice shaking. He doesn't look at her.

"It's over and done with," he tells her, "there's nothing you could have done to stop it."

"We could have moved," Sonya tells him, quick to shift the blame. "I should have - god, I should have _noticed._ How does a sister not notice when her own brother is crushing on some  _bloody boy and he gets death threats every day for it?!_ You almost died and I  _wouldn't have known because you don't tell me anything._ "

"It's not going to do any good, drudging this up," he tells her, "this quiet - this silence from them - it's better. It's  _better_.  _I'm_ better. I was stupid, but I fixed it - I fixed the situation the only way I knew how." He tells her and tears enter her eyes. He sees the water's light reflect on her sharp cheekbones and her eyes look blue right here. Even when she was crying, she was beautiful. But when Newt broke, he became a monster. "I'm sad that I-" he stops, then forces the words out. "I'm upset that I never got to meet them, because I'm sure they would have been great, but this … this might have been what saved me, Sonya. Me losing them."

She opens her mouth and brushes his bangs out of his face, "It's not right. You have to lose your own soulmate to be safe. How is that right?" Before he could say anything to that, a security guard steps up, looking uncomfortable. The first thing that Newt looks at is how carefully the guard positions his stringed hand away, and Newt's eyes flick after it, seeing it pull off in another direction.

"Listen, ma'am," he stops, his gaze wavering on Newt, "sir." The word comes curtly, like he has to spit it out and not even  _breathe_ the same air he is. "I think I have to ask you to leave, you're disturbing the other patrons." Newt frowns, tugging his hand out of Sonya's grip but she's already nodding.

"Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry, sir - just - bull sharks. You know, my soulmate's favourite animal. She's in another state right now so I just got very emotional over them," she says and something in his gut twinges. The security guard seems to buy it though, because he nods his burly head and rumbles away, tottering on his full weight. "Newt?" she asks, quietly.

To his surprise, he doesn't tense. He's feel so emotionally drained that he's afraid that if she asks him anything more, he might spill his secret - tell her that his soulmate hadn't died just … disappeared. "Yeah?"

"Do you still like jellyfish?" She asks him, and he frowns, pulling his eyebrows together and shooting her a muddled look. Sonya presses the tip of her index finger beneath each eye, wiping away her tears and patting her cheeks, trying to make herself look as if she hadn't been crying. "You did, when you were little. Before I left, you really liked them."

Newt is honestly surprised that she remembers that. "I did," he says, slowly. "But … I … killer whales, I think."

Sonya straightens out her back; Newt faintly recognizes that look in her eyes. It was the same look that their father would get when he was determined, "I wasn't there for you when you needed me, but I'm here now. So I'm going to go get you a bloody orca t-shirt."

His smile comes uncertain, "Promise?"

She hesitates, "If they have it."

Newt nods and takes her hand when she prompts it. Not for the first time, he is aware that not everything was about soulmates - he could be happy just as he is, and make his own destiny, just as he is in this moment, with his sister. He didn't need anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient with me; I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.  
>  ~~Kudos and comments are necromantic rituals that raise me, you know.~~


	7. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt considers telling Brenda about what happened on that fateful day but she also has something that she wants to tell him.

The next couple of days after the visit to the aquarium wasn't too eventful. Sonya still smiled at him, sometimes warily eyeing him as if she didn't know how to act around him nos. Newt had always seen her as the strong, independent woman that she was; and yet he didn't always feel like relying on her. Sure, as a child, he had hid behind her when she came to visit and their parents were still alive, but he had been raised like an only child for so long, that sometimes he felt like he didn't need her.

After her slight breakdown the other day did he realise how much of a crutch he used her as - he didn't tell her things that he should have, didn't ask for help, but used her assistance to limp when he should learn how to run. Newt figured that he was being unfair to her, that he had shut her out. But surviving so long without her - how could he learn to tell her things again? The significant age gap between them certainly didn't help.

Sometimes it was difficult to talk to her - to tell her things. But isn't that how it usually went between siblings? "Newt!" He jerks away from the running faucet, simultaneously becoming aware that he was standing in the shower and that his hand had become slimy and frothy due to a bar of soap. "Don't use all the hot water - and your phone is going off!"

Newt sets the bar of soap down and washes his hand off as thoroughly as he can. Already the rivets of water that was pouring down his body started to cool.  _So much for not using all the hot water._ He turns the faucet off and scrapes his hand through his hair, shaking as much water droplets off as he could. He gropes for his slightly ragged towel from behind the curtain. He's long since grown accustomed to wrapping a towel around his hips in the shower because occasionally Sonya would barge in.

He tries not to stare too long at his mangled leg; at the deep scars that rose along his calf, and thin crisscrossing lines that scissored through his skin, something in places other than his leg as well. It doesn't look at bad as it could have been, not as bad as it was along his ribs, but his leg still ached at the knee, so it was with great care that he stepped out of the shower. He could hear Sonya further down the hallway, out of sight. So he steps down the hallway quickly and closes his bedroom door behind him. His fan had stopped, but fortunately, it's still within the cool hours of the morning so he's glad for this reprieve. He pats himself dry and slips into a pair of clean boxers. He slips the wet towel across his shoulders and makes a hobbled dash down the hallway, ignoring Sonya's pretend-offended shout of surprise, and swipes his phone from the counter.

His sister is unloading the bags of groceries onto the counter, clumsily shielding her eyes while expertly digging her other hand into a plastic bag. She seems to be having trouble so she ignores Newt's half-decency and frowns, practically pulling apart the bag. "They're pretty insistent on calling you," Sonya says, lugging out the coffee and shoving it into a cupboard blindly.

"It's Brenda," Newt says, feeling his phone vibrate in his hand before deftly cutting off before he could swipe to answer it. His sister's movements slow and she watches him go through his call history. "Alby called last night." He winces, which only caused his sister's frown to deepen. "I don't want to talk to him."

"You don't have to," Sonya says, grabbing the carton of milk and shoving it into the fridge. "Call back Brenda, tell Alby you have plans with her." She accents her point with a physical jab of broccoli into his side. She sounds comforting, always trying to help - especially now - but he doesn't quite know how to react to this. Was she compensating for her breakdown a couple days ago?

"Alright," he says, feeling tension ease from his shoulders. He looks down at his phone, missing the sympathetic glance from his sister.

  _Bren: Hey, lizard man. Are you up to hang out today?_

_Newt: I'd suppose so_

_Bren: Park in ten?_

"I'll be seeing you?" He asks his sister, voice tilting at the end almost unsurely. She stares at him.

"Alright," she sighs, "tell her I said hi, will you?" He nods, giving her a mock salute and she smiles, although it looked a bit strange. "Remember, Harriet is coming back in a couple days."

"Got it," he tells her and she nods, sending him on his way.

 

**

 

"Sonya says hi," he tells her when he finds her in the park, surrounded by the area with the most trees dotting the ground. She has her hair pulled up in a ponytail, some kind of Canadian baseball team adorning her hat. She's wearing heavy duty sunglasses, a dark T-shirt emblazed with  _The Truth is Out There,_  Jean shorts and high tops. It's her usual attire, the sort that accents her tanline even though the summer months are waning.

She looks at him, mouth quirking cockily. "Well, tell her I say hi back," she smiles, "and that Jorge wants to meet up with her and Harriet for a barbeque someday." She tugs onto Newt's wrists and doesn't hesitate to pull him down with her, kicking up clumps of grass and dirt. He feels her breath sharply against her, her breath hot against the shell of his ear, until he rolls away from her, feeling his shirt ride up. He doesn't miss her look at him, judging by the way that her head bobbed. She lays on the grass for a few moments, her laughter warm and brighy when it trickles out.

"We should hang out more often," she tells him, mouth cocking up again. He studies her jawline; the plump pulse of her cheeks and her small, round lips. She had nice arching eyebrows that barely expressed much except for when she cocked one at your stupidity.

"What makes you say that?" He asks, sitting up and crossing his ankles.

"Because I don't want you to get sad again," she tells him, drawing her bottom lip in for thought. "Also, selfishly, because I enjoy spending time with you - you just help me relax."

"Good," he sighs, feeling a smile curve his lips. He watches her tug on her sunglasses and pile them atop her head, squinting against the sunlight. "I like spending time with you too." He feels like there's a double meaning to his words, and she must have sensed it too, because she looks over at him, perplexed.

He figures he should say more after that, but he can't find the words. Suddenly, her eyebrows twitch as she fights of a smile, dark eyes framed by thick lashes peering at him curiously. "Hey, whale boy," she teases, "what are you looking at?"

The smile comes easy, "You." She winks at him in response, and he laughs breathlessly. She always had a way of making him feel - free, almost.

"That's right, you're now part of my little harem," she laughs and kicks her feet up, sending up blades of grass and loose clumps of dirt. He rolls his eyes at her, amused and fond all at once. He could tell that she wasn't serious, wasn't actually considering him with the rest. He could understand why most people threw themselves at her, but he also knew how uncomfortable she was about all of it. He also knew that sometimes when he looked at her, she looked right back. Newt wasn't sure how he felt about that, either - except that he liked it, almost.

She unfolds herself out on the grass, laying there mostly immobile, digging her fingers into the soil and scrabbling up loose chunks of dirt. Brenda goes still after a couple moments except for the steady rise and fall of her chest.

"I don't think there's room for me in your harem," he says, but he shoots her a smile.

Brenda quirks an eyebrow, "We'll see about that." She sounds almost serious, her voice going softer. "I might change your mind." She turns her head, loosing her cap from her head, sunglasses spilling out into the grass.

"Yeah? How?"

Brenda stares at him, her breathing soft and quiet. She sticks out her tongue, licking her lips, eyes dazed in thought beforbefore she speaks tentatively. "By telling you that you could kiss me, if you'd like," she tells him, pulling herself up enough so that she could survey him carefully. Her dark eyes were almost unreadable. "I don't mind." Newt feels hyperaware of how close she is, and how far. She isnt demanding much of his attention - she's small enough, but she's such a big part of his world, too.

"Your soulmate will," he tells her, feeling his cheek twitch just the slightest. She blinks, and not for the first time, is he captivated by her dark eyes.

"They're not here right now," she tells him, almost sourly, sucking in her cheeks in thought. "And honestly, I don't believe I need them. I only need you, and Jeff, and Clint, and maybe Alby. I don't need anybody else."

He frowns, mulling this over in his head. "But they're still your soulmate."

"And  _you're_ still here. I'm not going to wait forever for someone who might not even show." Something in his chest gives; her eyes soften and she reaches out, curling her fingers into the clefts of Newt's hands, looking into his face as if looking for an apology. He recognizes her words, recognized it as something that he had told himself before he had cut his string.

"There's something you should know about me, about my soulmate," he tells her, not quite recognizing the words he's saying. " _Sonya_ doesn't even know." Her eyes are dark and round, mouth thinning into a straight line. His heart feels like it's leaping into his throat. Panic settles thickly in his chest, and he can barely breathe. He could trust Brenda - he had known her long before the incident with Alby and long after. He would trust her with anything - so why was he hesitating now to tell her? He wonders if this is one of those instances that it doesn't matter what the secret was, only that he had kept it a secret for so long.

"It doesn't matter," she tells him, pulling back to adjust her ponytail, elbows almost catching him in the chin. "They're gone and they're not coming back," there's no harshness to her words, just a blunt truth. "It doesn't matter anymore, only the here and now. What does it matter any about soulmates? If I love you, I love you. I can't change that. _Nobody_ can make me feel differently."  _You can't say that. You haven't met them yet._

"You're supposed to be with them," he tells her, and his fingers dig into the ground. "Out of everyone in the world, they're the one who you're supposed to end up with."

Brenda holds up a couple fingers. "No, I don't think so. I'm going to study psychology, right? And veterinarian medicines but that's besides the point. I _know_ this. If there is only one person for us, then what about those with multiple strings? There's a recorded amount of four strings, you know. What about those whose soulmates are abusive? Are you saying that they should stay, even when they could die? And the people who get strings after their old one dissolves? What about them?" She sounds angry, "Newt, I don't want to be with someone I know nothing about! Right now, they're nothing but a person on the other end of the line. The universe may have thought that I would be suited for them, but right now, I think the only person who is suited for me is you." She lets out a quick huff and leans back. Her neck has flushed red with anger, and her shoulders are visibly shaking, jaw clenched in anger.

He doesn't know how to react to this, doesn't know if he should tell her that he feels the same - that soulmates didn't matter, only them - or if he's lying to himself because he still feels the echoes of his wrongdoings. When he doesn't think about his soulmate, he lives life as he would normally - as if nothing had ever gone wrong. But had it really? Had his decision been the right choice?

"I get what you're saying, I really do," he tells her, quietly, and she stares. "But I don't think I can. You don't understand what I've done, Bren - I've ... done something really bad." He can't look at her, can't stare at her, just in case she realizes what he has done and horror lights up her eyes. He couldn't bear to see one of his closest friends go.

"Does it matter?" she asks him, "if it hurts you - if you feel better without them - then does it _really_ matter? If you're sorry about it, then it doesn't ... you shouldn't dwell on the past. It isn't healthy. You're not doing yourself any favors by thinking it over. You're going to run yourself ragged and then who can help you? If you aren't willing to move on, how can you live with your life? Your soulmate would want that for you."

Newt stares at his hands, twirling a loose blade of grass between his fingers. "I guess," he tells her, knowing that there is some truth to her words. She sighs and turns away, seemingly done with him. He knows that he should move on, and he has - he feels things for her, he knows, but he doesn't think he could see her get insulted by this country like he has been. She's from Canada, he knows, where they're far more accepting of non-soulmates being together. He doesn't know why America had to be like this, why he had to fall for Alby and ruin his own life, why he had chosen to cut his string.

There's a lot of things that Newt regretted, he knew. There's nothing that he could do about them, nothing that he could do to change the past. But there were things for him to ensure his future. He looks over at Brenda, who has taken staring at some children playing with a frisbree. She has grown quiet, but he doesn't miss the looks she keeps giving him. How is he to heal past this if he won't accept what he's done, won't think about it? How is he to move on?

"Brenda," he says, and she turns to look at him, mouth pulled into a frown. She's watching him, looking tired with her shoulders stooping and eyes dark.

"Yeah?"

He work his jaw, trying to think of all the things he wants to say to her. They're so close to getting together, and yet so far. Was it wrong of him to try with someone else after what he has done? "Thank you," he finally says, and a slow, easy smile works up her lips. The least that Newt could do, he figured, was try to get there - try to make Brenda happy, and more importantly himself. But for now, he figured he's just go his own pace in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that this Brenewt chapter was developed for a reason. By dating Brenda, he would gradually allow himself to feel happy (because he feels guilty and figures that he shouldn't be) which in the long run will make him more receptive to the Newtmas later on. However, this would probably be a reason for conflict later.
> 
> *Comments and kudos ressurect the demon of fanfiction, so I've been told.


	8. Newt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of summer barbecue is something that Newt looks forward to, and not just because he thinks he's finally getting along with Alby again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Nicole, who wanted an update before school started up for them again.

The Gallagher-Despain household had a remarkable home. It stood towering over Newt, making him feel insignificant and small. It didn't help any that they had tall and narrow pine trees dotting along the property. The grass is ankle height, brushing against his ankles and making him twitch. The air feels warm around him, even though he has long since abandoned his sweater in the car. Sonya has herself propped up on the hood of the car, feet dangling over the headlights. Her hair is pulled down into a fish braid, drawn across her back with a smaller side braid along her temple. Her mouth is set in a firm line, her phone's light shining up on her face.

Harriet is leaning against the drivers' door, looking disgusted with herself as she drew another cigarette to her lips. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail, curls draping across her dark mocha skin. She has perfect posture despite the fact that her head is crooked slightly; her back is rigid and her fingers poised carefully around her full-lipped mouth. Her cheeks are narrow, with low cheekbones that make her face look long. She has thick eyebrows and a strong nose, with the kind of aura that she seems to be judging you. She completely changes when Sonya is around - her face lights up, her skin smooths out and she looks far more relaxed, but right now, she just looks ansty. Her mouth is set into a scowl, and her dark eyes are staring down at her combat boots, aviator jacket drawn tightly across her body.

"She looks like she could murder someone," he feels Brenda's warm breath on his ear and he turns; she is so close that he feels his nose brush against her cheek when he turns to look at her.

"Wouldn't be surprised if she has," he tells her, not bothering to be quiet. He doesn't know why Harriet is acting like this; distant and disgruntled. Her case in New Jersey must have bothered her; he can't imagine what it would be, though. His mouth twitches downwards in disapproval, watching a plume of smoke arise from her cigarette.

"Do you think I could bum one off of her?" she asks, and he lets out a disbelieving snort. She smiles at him, but he isn't sure if she's joking. He knows that she has always been reckless, that she would sooner go skydiving than go biking with the road with him, but internally endangering herself with 

"That's really dangerous for your health," he tells her, aware that his voice is thick and cutting, because she stares at him with the corner of her lip peeled back in disgruntlement. But then her expression clears and she shoves her hands into her bunnyhug, letting out a sigh. Her legs kick out, heels of her Adidas digging into the soul. Newt shifts, feeling like the log that they're sitting on isn't exactly comfortable anymore.

"You got it, Doc," she tells him, muttering sarcastically. He twitches involuntarily and draws his knees up when she lands a tap against his shin. He's always been more leg than torso, he knows, so it's slightly awkward making himself fold like this. He wraps his arms around his legs and shoots her an unamused look. Brenda doesn't seem to mind because she flashes him a thankful smile and squeezes his wrist when she draws her hands out.

He smiles at her, letting her lower her hand to twine her fingers with his. Her knuckles are bony, pressing into his skin but he doesn't mind. It's almost comforting, really. He likes the fact that she's trying - trying to pull back on her random bouts of energetic activity, of her recklessness. It was bad enough when she had taken to gymnastics and insisted that she could do the more incredible feats. He didn't doubt her, of course, but it was reckless all the same.

"Well, look who's here," Harriet says, pushing herself away from the truck and Sonya looks up, hair falling across her brow. Newt looks over as well, seeing a familiar truck pull up next to the Isaac's vehicle.

Alby is the one who steps out; he's wearing a windbreaker, hood drawn up across his head and dark sweats covering his legs. He looks really uncertain, but his face breaks into a small grin when he spots Brenda. She mock salutes him with her free hand, grin breaking through her face. At Newt's imploring look, she explains, "Just because you two didn't work out didn't mean that I couldn't stop hanging out with him."

Newt frowns, wondering if he should be offended that Brenda didn't value their friendship more to distance herself from Alby or relieved that she chose to remain friends with him and not let Newt's predicament get in the way of her friendship. He's jarred out of his thoughts when he hears another door slam. He looks over and spots a tall boy - not as tall as Newt was, but that was a given considering he was 5'11", but still fairly tall - taller than Alby but nowhere near Jorge's horrendous height. Broad but bony shoulders poked through his sandy brown t-shirt, and he's thin, scrawny in the waist and the chest. He has a mop of blond hair that flops into his eyes, thick eyebrows marring his face and a strong nose with gentle swooping cheekbones. He's squinting, crossing his arms in a defensive stance. He looks to be younger than them by a couple years, although his expression makes him seem a bit more mature.

"Who's that?" he asks Brenda and she gives him a slight smile.

"That would be Ben," Brenda hums, digging the heels of her shoes into the soft soil beneath her feet. "I invited both of them here."

"Oh," he says, but gratefully takes her hand when she offers it to him, and she pulls him up with surprising strength. He sways slightly, feeling the blood rush to his feet. Brenda takes his hand, her palm sliding against his until their fingers lace together and she parades them over towards the two had gotten out of the truck. He stands awkwardly to the side, unable to look at both of them. It was true that he had gotten over Alby, and that is had been months since the incident, he doesn't believe himself to be ready.

"Newt," Alby smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Newt could read the kindness in his posture, the forgiving tone in his voice as he offers his hand for Newt to shake. When his hand touches Alby's though, the older boy pulls him into a quick hug, wrapping his arms securely around Newt's back. "Don't think you can't get out of a hug, idiot," he says, no venom to his voice. It makes him sound awkward, and Newt could almost feel the tenseness in Alby's grip - or perhaps that was him and his resistance. Finally, Alby pulls back to peer into Newt's face. "You know, we should really hang out sometime," there's this tentativeness to his voice that Newt couldn't help but notice.

"With Ben?" he finds himself asking, and as if on some cue, the other blond raises his eyes to them, looking away from Brenda who was animatedly talking with him. Alby looks over, subconsciously gripping his right wrist. Newt's eyes flick down, towards the red ribbon tying their pinkies together, making the distance between them seem incredibly small. Something ugly builds in his chest at the sight and subconsciously, as if in response, his own finger twitches, pressing the cool metal of the mateless ring into his palm.

"No," Alby says, finally. Something in Newt's chest eases, but its still tight. "It'll be just us - I couldn't do that to you."

"Actually," Newt finds himself saying, if only just to get the forlorn and apologetic look off of Alby's face. "We could double date - you and Ben, Brenda and me." He sees Brenda turn her head at that, something unreadable in her eyes but he's not looking at her. Instead he's looking at Alby, trying to deduce what the boy was thinking. Instead, the dark-haired boy smiles and claps a hand to his shoulder.

Something is bright in Alby's eyes when he responds, "Sure. Sounds great." It doesn't sound like a lie coming from him - he's being earnest, as he always had been. "Ben? Come over here and meet Newt, would you?" Newt extends his hand formally when the blond approaches, looking almost like a skittish animal despite the fact that his troubled expression doesn't clear. The boy hesitates, then clasps his hand to Newt's, and quickly shrugs him off. Newt already likes him.

"Aren't you a bit young?" he asks, and that must have been the wrong thing to ask because Ben's expression falters. He seems to be taking it in stride though, because he offers a shrug.

"I'm sixteen," Ben says, and Newt raises his eyebrows over at Alby, who to his credit doesn't flinch or redden. "It's perfectly legal in this state," he's quick to say, looking almost sour. "My godmother has given consent for me to date someone over eighteen," he says, "not like it'd matter anyways. We're soul mates, so, it's not like the law could do much about it." There's something almost aggressive in the way he says that; Newt watches Alby tuck his fingers into the other's forearm, tugging him away quickly.

"We get harassed by it, sometimes," Alby says, sending Newt a quick disapproving frown. "Sorry, but if you'll excuse us-" he tugs Ben away, towards the back of the truck, whispering in soft tones.

"That was eventful," Brenda says, swooping to Newt's side easily. "Way to get 'em," she smiles, punching him lightly in the arm. "C'mon, leave them be, let's go see if we can call up Clint and Jeffery."

As it turns out, Clint and Jeff were a bit delayed getting to Brenda's house. Honestly, Newt figured that none of them minded any. They more concerned themselves with huddling together by the bonfire that George and Jorge put together. The cool press of autumn air does little to cool down the tempers, Newt realizes. Alby doesn't quite seem ready to forgive Newt that misspoken question, but he still sits beside him when prompted. Brenda sits on the other side of him, taking the cold weather in stride - _Canadians,_ Newt thinks, rolling his eyes fondly - and is chattering away with Ben again, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear.

Newt is half-heartedly listening, and only perks up when he hears Brenda ask him what he intends to do. "Me?" Ben asks, much kinder now that he isn't agitated. "Probably something with international affairs," he gives a slight shrug at their questioning looks. Brenda is already nodding and thanks her brother when he stops by, offering her a can of coke. "Or maybe architecture, or even counselling. I haven't decided yet."

"That's nice," Brenda says, but it doesn't sound like it's just polite talk coming from her. She has a way of making anyone sound important when she talks to them. "I'm going to become a vet, and Newt over there is going to become a doctor," she says, almost disinterestedly - an offhand remark that wasn't intended to sound like she was full of herself. Judging by Ben's eager nodding, it hadn't sounded like that.

"That's cool," Ben says, and he shoots Newt a disbelieving look. "Anything specific you're going into?"

Newt nods, "Yeah. Brain surgery, most likely, but diagnostics would be equally good too." He doesn't mention the weird dreams he has sometimes, some things that made him choose this career. It's better not to think of that, best not to dwell on mistakes he has never made, things that he's never done, on things that don't make sense.

Ben smiles, although it looks almost uneasy, "Like House MD, then?"

Newt hesitates a moment, considering, then turns to Alby with an eyebrow raised, "You know, I think I understand something better now. I approve of him." Alby looks startled for a moment before his eyes softened and a smile tugged on his lips, shoulders stooping as if a weight had been lifted. He hadn't realized how much his approval of Ben meant to Alby until then.

"I'm sitting right here, guys," Ben sounds amused but also annoyed.

"We know," Alby says, shrugging, a slight teasing to his voice, something that made the other two aware that this was something almost intimate. Brenda and Newt share a look, and she pretends to gag.

"Why aren't you four dancing up and getting excited?" comes a familiar voice and Newt's head snaps back. He sees Clint climb out of the small lithe car he's driving, and Jeff emerging not soon after. They had never been joined by the red string of fate, even though it sometimes seemed like it by the way they acted towards each other - their respective strings pull elsewhere, trailing to different people. Jeff was the friendlier of the two, and one of few of Newt's class who was going into pre-med with him - Clint was going into a different field of biology and had a way of speaking what was on his mind. "End of the summer, children, you should be getting hyped up just for the sole reason of being able to hit each other in the faces with snowballs. Also, Halloween candy. That's good too."

"Because, Clint," Brenda says, almost biting, but sweet in the way she smiled, "some of us have school next week and are actually going to attend it, instead of working at a zoo for the rest of our lives." Clint puts on a mock pout and saddles up in between Brenda and Ben.

"Offensive," he says, but shrugging as if it hadn't bothered him at all. It probably didn't. Jeff wanders over, smiling politely before sitting next to Alby, drawing his knees up to his chest so he wasn't imposing. As Clint turns his head to ramble on to Ben, who looked affronted by the sudden attention, the remaining ones share a look. Whatever happened during the school year, Newt hoped that they'd all stick together; that nothing would take this away from them.

"Alright," Jorge says, walking out of the house with George in tow, "Now which one of you kids want hot dogs and which ones want hamburgers?" He sounds agitated but it's the good kind.

"Hotdog for me," Sonya says, walking over, slipping her phone away and sitting cross-legged on an available spot across from Newt. They all chorus

 _This,_ Newt realizes, _This is what family really is. What home really feels like._ And he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wondering, but would you all want weekly updates? They'd be shorter, sure, with maybe 2k words, but it might be better than the 5k I try to write and never quite update in a month type chapters that I was doing before.  
> Anybody catch that easter egg that Newt mentions?  
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed this week's update.
> 
> *Kudos and comments feed the demon.


	9. Minho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho is almost late for the bus (again) but fortunately for him, a European boy has started the habit a of saving him a seat.

Minho doubted he would have been able to memorise the hustle and bustle of New York. He’s nearly slammed into a couple of people in his haste, breathed heavily down their necks, watched them flinch back in recoil, looking absolutely disgusted and horrified, eyes half-lidded and mouths gaped open. He barely ushers an apology, usually included with an eyeroll. Some hiss back between clenched teeth, others shoo him onwards.

Minho, decidedly, hates morning classes. He had roomed with Aris, one of the only one of their crew always guaranteed not to be bringing someone one to have drunken sex on the couch with. He remembers the mousy-haired boy stare cloudily at him while he gathered his things, slamming a piece of toast in his mouth before booking it out the door, barely muttering a good morning. For all the positives that came with having Aris as a roommate, the downside was that neither of them were morning people and slept through the first hour of their pre-wake up routines. Which meant that now he was rushing, and not for the first time, was he thankful that he had taken track when he did.

His legs pump quickly, strides long and sure-footed, and peculiarly enough, he has managed to sidestep more people as time dragged on. He feels his hair dampen a bit towards his skull, shirt catching on his nape, but he pays little attention to that. The Asian has been late to too many of his classes already, and they were already more than two weeks into the semester.

He sees the sleek shape of the bus up ahead, a couple people clambering on board. It’s one of the few that makes round trips to all of the schools, particularly Glade College and WICKED Uni, and that included the entirety of the buildings. It seemed that he was fortunate enough to have caught it before it left and returned who-knows-when.  
  
The bus has only begun to close its doors by the time he swoops towards it, knees aching and the bottoms of his feet sore from the horrible shoes he’s bought. Minho only heaves a dramatic sigh and slaps his palm wetly against the glass door. The doors clink open and the bus driver shoots him a sour look. It’s a man in his mid thirties with impossibly blue eyes, dark hair spilling out from beneath his cap. There’s lines marring and folded across his face, but his eyes are remarkably kind despite how sharply his mouth pulls downwards.

“Cutting it late again,” comes his deep voice. Seriously, how did someone get such an alluring and deep voice? Minho nods and the driver accepts his student pass, looking it over and processing it before passing it back. “Pick a spot.” The bus driver turns then to accept another student’s pass, waving him off. Minho graciously accepts it, taking quick steps back and peering around at the crowded bus.

Most of them were students, youthful in appearance, some leering at the floor with sombre hungover glares. Minho sweeps his dark gaze around the bus, feeling the floor lurch beneath his feet. He has since settled on grappling with a handrail above him, palm sliding against the smooth metal.

“You know, there’s a reason why I saved this spot for you,” comes a definite European drawl and he turns, pivoting on the bottom of his heel. The blond who spoke doesn't look up, only moves his leather jacket from beside him. It’s a small space, the sort that would result in his thighs pressed against the strangers’.   
The blond was one that Minho has only seen a couple times, either in his Thursday class or on the bus, always staring at him in disapproval when he sees him rush in.   
  
"Hey, thanks, man," Minho sits down on the cushioned seat unceremoniously, curling around his stomach, thighs clenching, but not too terrible as it would have if he had sprinted the entire way to the campus. The blond says nothing, but quirks an eyebroe at him. He slumps backwards onto the seat, more draped across it than actually sitting on it, feeling the adrenaline that pumped through him wane off.   
  
He runs his fingers through his bangs, feeling the dampness gather on his skin. Somehow, defying the laws of physics, his well done hair seemed immaculate - not a strand was out of place. He amounted it to good genes. When the bus stops once more, he finally takes a look at the boy next to him.   
  
The blond is all angles and bones; not unlike Gally's lithe form. But where the sharp-browed boy was broad-shouldered, this blond was narrow-waisted and shouldered, with near flawless skin aside from what looked like a small smattering of freckles across his jawline and nose. Dark blond hair flopped in front of his eyes, a rich and dark hue of brown; his facial structures were well accented by his high cheekbones and his sharp nose. He was attractive, in an almost boyish, youthful, way. Mr Blondie was staring down at his phone, mouth quirking happily.   
  
Minho feels his mouth already begin to curve and he rests his arms along the back of the bus seats, feeling the cloth of his shirt ride up but he pays little attention to that. "Hey, you know, I don't think we've been introduced," he begins, aware that his voice dips slightly. His 'I'm better than you so pay attention to me' voice as Teresa described it. "I'm Minho."   
  
"And I'm not interested," comes the sharp, clipped tone, dark brown eyes not raising from the flat surface. It's surprisingly different from the passive voice he had earlier. "I have a girlfriend." There's accusation in his voice, his leg dropping from where he propped it across his knee. There's a quick, dirty look in his eyes and Minho shrugs off the other's looks.   
  
"I'm not coming onto you," he chastises him, "and for your information, I have a boyfriend. Well, best friend-slash-boyfriend. Best combo pack - go the high road or no road, you know?" His mouth moves quickly, hoping to placate the situation. He had stretched the truth as far as he could; Thomas was by no means his boyfriend, but they had promised themselves to each other in tenth grade if they couldn't find their soulmates by age thirty. Which was close enough. Then he wrinkles his nose for emphasis, "Why would I want to hit on you?"   
  
The boy makes a dramatic motion of presenting his hand. At first, Minho doesn't understand, but then he catches a glimpse of the ebony ring that all non-soulmated people wore - not the ivory or pearl bands that people wore when they were born without strings or had white strings, usually meaning that their soulmate hadn't been born yet. This was a plain jane ebony ring that curved around the boy's lanky fingers; no special designs marked it; he also wore it on his pinkie finger, covering his soulmate string. Or what was left of it. Black rings meant that that their soulmates died, because nobody liked the look of a frayed ring.   
  
"I am also British," the boy says, dropping his hand to his thigh, looking disinterested, head rolling along the base of his skull to give Minho an sharp look.   
  
Minho smirks, "Man. If I was weaker-minded, that voice would be in my dreams all night." Then he winks. The blond, to his credit, looks affronted for about approximately twenty seconds before his eyes softened and his mouth twitched into a pleasantly surprised wince, shoulders pressing into the back of the cushions.   
  
"Cute," the European says amicably, his eyes creasing along the edges from his withheld smile - but suddenly, without warning, it turns biting. "You're only made out of nightmare material, I'm afraid."   
  
Minho makes a show of leaning forward, running the tips of his fingers along the mateless boy's shoulder. "That's probably true - speaking of. What are your clothes made out of? Boyfriend material?" There's a polite smile, and Mr Blondie sets down his phone, mouth twitching as he tries to suppress a laugh.   
  
"Alright, I'll give you that one, you twat," the boy says, almost fondly. He hasn't punched Minho yet, though, so he counts that as something. "I'm Newt, studying pre-med at Glade College." The Asian is quick to notice when he's overstepped his boundary, though, so he draws his hand back, instead shoving it in his pocket. The blond - Newt - seems to have relaxed some, his shoulders stooping lower in his grey sweater.   
  
Minho has already found himself nodding. "That makes sense. What are you in exactly? Nursing?" At Newt's almost sour look, he elaborates. "Some medical schools cut down your schooling if you have some years as a nurse under your belt, don't they?" He scratches at his cheek, considering. "Honestly, I’m going into physiotherapy so I know about some of that stuff."

Newt begins to turn to him, eyes brightening with interest, although his eyebrows were still knitted together, looking almost nervous. His shoulders are tense before he mutters, finally. “We share three hours together on Thursday, don't we?”

Minho frowns, thinking back, fingers twitching against the unknotted cloth inside his jacket. Finally, he nods, and relief seems to pass over Newt’s face, relaxing his jaw muscles. “I think so,” he says, finally. There's still a tenseness to his eyes, but he seems far more at ease with the Asian now.

“You sit way at the back,” Newt says, again, and Minho nods. He has always sat down at the back if given the choice. That wasn't always the best option, because then everybody assumes that he slacks off, and being surrounded by the very people who do such a thing at the back, he had a tendency to lag behind. “No wonder I've never noticed you before,” there’s something accusing in his voice, something sharp and cutting, his eyes not betraying anything as he skeptically watched the shorter boy.

“Well, you have,” Minho prompts, not unkindly, and Newt’s expression fogs. “See, if you hadn't noticed me, you wouldn't have saved a seat for me.”

The blond is quick to roll clear brown eyes, mouth pulling into a vicious frown, sarcasm prominent when he spoke, “Yeah. Right. That's because you're a bloody loon who can't catch the bus when you’re supposed to. I always see you jogging at the side, thinking, 'that, there, Newton - is a real idiot. Don't talk to him.’”

Minho frowns, withdrawing his hand to crack his knuckles then props them behind his neck. “You  _ are _ talking to me, shank. No backing out of this one - we’re even on a first name basis. That's a clearly written win in my book.” He doesn't hesitate in tapping his foot against the other’s shin and receives a dirty look in response. “But, I think we’d be better off as friends, wouldn't you say?”

“Who says I need friends?” Newt retorts, but the harshness in his features had gone soft, and he’s just openly staring at Minho wonderingly. “Perhaps I have plenty and you’re just butting in.”

“Well, no friends in  _ that _ class, then - you sit alone, don't you?” He’s sure to leave no judgement in his voice, nothing that would make it known that he’s forcing the blond to accept his presence. But Newt is already staring at him skeptically.

“You  _ do  _ remember that I'm stringless, right? Nobody wants to sit by me,” he explains, pressing the flat of his phone screen onto his thigh. He’s staring down at his hand, toying with the dark ring, a moody expression tightening his features.

“I'm not prejudiced or paranoid, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Minho says, sharply and clearly, putting force behind each word. He sees Newt stiffen his shoulders, drawing them together slightly, thighs pressing together and away from the dark haired boy's touch. He recognises that defensive posture - he’s seen it enough times on Thomas. It's the stance of someone afraid to get hurt. “Listen, man, I'm not judging - honest. One of my closest friends happens to be stringless - he’s tough, though, and he’s pulled through it. I know being near a stringless doesn't mean I'll lose my own - and if I do, it doesn't matter. A soulmate is just a person, you can't control what happens to them.”

He sees Newt flick his eyes upwards, dark blond hair falling across his eyelids, pale lashes pressing against his pale skin. “I'll see you in class,” he says, voice clipped. Minho frowns, wondering if he somehow made the European mad at him - if it has been something he said. Newt stands up, and for a harrowing moment, Minho is aware that the other was taller than he expected. He clutches his bag strap tightly to his shoulder, looking warily ay Minho. “And I suggest you don't forget your bag, either.” There’s a polite smile - one that doesn't quite reach his eyes - and he takes a step towards the door, fingers tracing along the edges of the bars raised above his head. The bus lurches to a steady stop outside of one of the Glade College buildings, one that Minho wasn't familiar with, and the blond steps off.

For a moment, he is confused. The blond had seemed put off, distant, perhaps lost in his thoughts. Minho muses this over, eyebrows knitting together as he rests the back of his head against the bus chair. It felt strangely lonely without the Newt.

His leg brushed against empty space when he moved, and he became more aware of what Newt was saying. He had forgotten his bag.

“Shit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. You'll be getting updates every Saturday now. (: Don't expect for them to be very long though. (I procrastinate and tend to write very little compared to other times when pressured under a deadline.) But this should surely help things move along.
> 
> Kudos and comments feed Calcifer the fire demon!  
> (Granted, talking about something that your obnoxious schoolmate/co-worker works as well.)


	11. Not An Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * * *

It's been a good, long while, huh?

I'm sorry for the wait, I really am. You all deserve good weekly updates but you're just not getting it. You all deserve good, _fleshed out_ chapters and yet none of you are getting that. You deserve so much more than what I'm giving you and I'm sorry. I do know that I want you all to have a good story and this - _this_ isn't it. I can't give you what I don't have. I want to give you all the best that I can offer but I can't, not with this.

I'm a oneshot author, a two- or threeshot at best, and you're lucky if you get another chapter from me - not just for this story but for _any_ of them. I've known this for a while and yet I still tried, because you all were so  _encouraging_ and I thought you all deserved a good fic rather than a oneshot. It was my mistake and I realise that now.

I tried to deny it, deny that I couldn't write this, because I figured it might get _easier_ the closer I get to the parts I want to write. That it might get _better_ if I hang on just a little longer. But it isn't worth it if all you guys are getting is  _butchered_ chapters that have been wrung through the meat grinder until they come out as barely legible.

This isn't the best of my writing, I know, and I never quite understood why all of you liked the writing of mine that was so _awful._ That you all liked my worst. Was it because I tried my best to give you the better things? I tried, I did, but it's hard if you don't want to write it and  _dont_ like it. I don't think I ever did, not past chapter one, and my writing is reflecting that, I know. I'm stunting myself because I feel like I  _have_ to write it. I'm not writing for me anymore - it's not the story I _want_ to write. It's selfish of me, I know, to drop it like this, but I can't keep doing this anymore.

I can't keep tugging you all along, all of you hoping for an update that likely won't ever come. Maybe in a year I'll try again, and maybe it'll be the same or worse or even better. Maybe I'll update again even after I post this but never again, maybe twice more. Who really knows? But I  _do_ know you all deserve better than this.

You all deserve  _closure_ of some kind. Maybe I'll write up a chapter later, briefing over what happens over the span of the next couple of years. Or maybe I won't. The point is, this fic is discontinued and I just wanted you all to know that. **You all don't have to keep waiting for an update anymore. You can all unsubscribe now. You can all move on.**

... I'm thinking about keeping these chapters up, or maybe deleting all of them past chapter two so some poor soul a couple years down the road won't chance upon it and go "oh, wow, this is really good, I wish this was finished".  **It probably won't ever be.**

**Not unless one of you want this.** I'll be sad to see my  ~~troubled child~~ fic go but if somebody wants to finish this, they can. I can add them as co-author and they can keep writing. I don't mind.

_But it won't be me finishing this._ I'm sorry, I really am, but I can't keep dragging you all along on a carriage with a dead horse pulling with a road map to the middle of dead ends and false starts. In the end, it'll just get us nowhere.

This was fun while it lasted, but you all deserve better - but sometimes it's time to move on.

I hope you all find better fics in the end and keep on reading.

Cheers.


End file.
